“You are.”
“I’m trying to understand what it means.”
The honesty in that hits harder than anything else tonight.
“It means we stop pretending,” I say.
Her jaw tightens.
“That’s not helpful. Plus, we’ve only known each other for a few days. It’s too fast.”
“It’s the truth, and I’m a believer in things happening for a reason.”
She turns away, diving a hand through her hair. The distance between us feels wrong now. Completely opposite to the rightness of having her in my arms.
“I can’t do this if it’s going to turn into something that distracts from why I’m here,” she says.
I step back another inch, giving her space even though every part of me wants to take it right back.
“You think this is a distraction,” I say.
“I think it could be.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It’s close enough.”
Silence settles again. But it’s different this time. Heavier.
Rook scratches at the door like he’s done waiting for us to figure this out.
Lark exhales sharply.
“I need air,” she says.
She doesn’t wait for a response. Just moves past me, pulling the back door open and stepping out into the night. I don’t even give it a second thought before I follow.
The air outside is cooler. The sky stretches wide above us, stars just starting to break through the fading light. My barn stands a short distance away, one light on inside, casting a soft glow through the open doors.
Lark walks straight for it, and I let her go ahead. Give her space. Until she stops just inside the barn doors.
The smell hits immediately—hay, earth, something warm and living that settles deeper than anything inside the house.
A soft sound comes from the far stall.
A cat, one of the many barn cats on the property. Lark notices immediately.
I notice her expression shift and soften.
She steps closer, careful, slow, like she’s approaching something fragile.
“That’s Tabby,” I say from behind her.
“She’s small.”
“She’s new.”
The cat nudges forward, curious, and Lark crouches without thinking, her hand extending slowly until Tabby presses her nose into her palm.
